“You will be anxious to ascertain,” proceeded Brinkley, with his old air of lightness, “by what accident, or special Providence, I arose from the grave in which you politely entombed me. The explanation is very simple. My young friend here, Matt, the foundling, or, as I should rather call her, Miss Monk of Monkshurst, came to my assistance, attended to my injuries, which were not so serious as you imagined, and enabled me, before daybreak, to gain the kindly shelter of my caravan. Tim and a certain rural doctor did the rest. I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Monk, but I felt bound to keep my promise--to interfere seriously with your little arrangements, if you persistently refused to do justice to this young lady.” As he spoke, Monk uttered a savage oath and rushed towards the road; but Marshall was after him in a moment, and sprang upon him. There was a quick struggle. Suddenly Monk drew a knife, opened it, and brandished it in the air; so that it would have gone ill with his assailant if the herculean Tim, coming to the rescue, had not pinioned him from behind. In another moment the knife was lying on the grass, and Monk was neatly handcuffed by the detective. “Now, governor, you’d better take it quietly!” said Marshall, while Monk struggled, and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. “You’re a smart one, you are, but the game’s up at last.” Monk recovered himself and laughed fiercely. “Let me go! Of what do you accuse me? It was murder just now, but since the murdered person is alive (curse him!) I should like to know on what charge you arrest me.” “Oh, there’s no difficulty about that!” said Brinkley, looking at him superciliously. “In the first place, you have by fraud and perjury possessed yourself of what never legally belonged to you. In the second place, you _attempted_ murder, at any rate. But upon my life, I don’t think you are worth prosecuting. I think, Mr. Marshall, you might let him go.” “It’s letting a mad dog loose, sir,” replied Marshall. “He’ll hurt somebody.” “What do _you_ say, Miss Monk?” said Brinkley. “This amiable-looking person is your father’s cousin. Shall I release your bridegroom, in order that you may go with him to the altar of Hymen and complete the ceremony?” “I hate him,” cried Matt; “I should like to drown him in the sea.” Brinkley laughed. “Your sentiments are natural, but unchristian. And the gentle Jones, now, who is looking at you so affectionately, what would you do with _him?_ Drown him in the sea too?” “No, no, Matt,” interposed William Jones, abjectly; “speak up for me, Matt. I ha’ been father to you all these years.” Matt seemed perplexed what to say. So Brinkley again took up the conversation. “On reflection we will refer William Jones to his friends the ‘coastguard chaps.’ I think he will be punished enough by the distribution of his little property in the cave. Eh, Mr. Jones?” Jones only wrung his hands and wailed, thinking of his precious treasure.